Smells Like Smoke and Death
by Mister Buch
Summary: An Mass Effect zombie horror story for October! On Eden Prime, in the wake of the geth attack, a surviving marine finds herself hounded by the resurrected 'husks' of her comrades. Badly injured and terrified, she races to find some kind of safety.
1. Escape

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Mass Effect

Smells Like Smoke and Death

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_A 'Mass Effect' zombie horror story for October._

_This story is best read outside in the darkness, with an electric torch held underneath the screen._

_ Happy Halloween, folks!_

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**1- Escape**

This was never supposed to happen.

As I stare blankly, unblinking and tortured into the face of my worst fear, I have to cling to something. I have to draw strength, and I've always been tough when I'm indignant. Stubborn. So, this was never _supposed_ to happen. It isn't _fair_.

Soldiers, even marines, aren't trained for this. Aren't even warned. For an instant I admit that no-one could have seen this coming, but then I feel my fingers relax, which is not acceptable. I can't afford to slip off the spike. I wasn't _trained_ for this.

I've nearly finished my tour. I'm not career and I was coming _home_ soon. I was done with the army. If I make it off Eden Prime alive, I swear I will never take to the skies again. AWOL, dishonourable discharge, whatever. I never signed on for _this_.

It takes all of my strength to hold on to the clean metal spike that lifts me into the cold breeze. There are hairline fractures concealing tiny panels beneath my gloved fingers. The panels cover machinery that does impossible, sickening things. Acrid smells I recognise but refuse to name have been lifted up here too. I keep telling myself I'm alone up here, and I wish it was true.

The rest of my unit are all around me, just as motionless but not hanging on with their hands. The spikes hit them all with better accuracy than this one hit me, piercing their bellies and chests at high speed, sending their spasming bodies instantly into shock. Either that, or the soldiers were forced onto them later by the robots.

The robots, though deadly accurate, were so much easier to deal with. Evans and Williams had theorised that they were geth, which was hard to believe. But wherever they came from, they were soldiers, of a sort. Back then it had been a battle, at least. When the two-twelve suffered enough losses that most of us fled, that's when it went to hell. If only we had stayed together. We ran until we saw the odd collection of gleaming, metal platforms, like little raised tables. Little tripedal platforms. And like fools, we looked closer. One or two were even resting on them when the spikes shot out. I was only caught just beneath the shoulder, but I was one of the first to be lifted up. The feeling of the smooth spike punching through my body and then cramming itself in deeper sent me into shock for a moment, and when I was aware again, I was trapped in the sky.

It hurts to hold on, and I want to vomit. I can't concentrate until I do. The screaming hole in my flesh where the spike hit me has stopped bleeding now, but the shattered armour plate above it jabs coldly and mercilessly into the exposed nerve-endings. I want to flex my fingers, just to assure myself that I still can, but I know that if I move I will die.

The robots are long gone now, but I'm watched instead by something worse. I am monitored by freshly-implanted sensors hidden behind blue lights. On the ground below, two figures stumble back and forth, confused and stripped of all but a shred of their intelligence and individuality. Their mouths are open and their lips are atrophied. Their skin is shrivelled and it is hard to discern where it ends and their sewed-in tubes and life support apparatus begins. Blue lights, generated by synthetic tissue that was once flesh, distract my attempts to study the creatures. They were my friends, and I watched them all die. Now they aren't quite human, and they are not dead. If they see that I have managed to silently prise my speared body from their pike, they will kill me. And then they will do worse. They will impale me again, and I will join the rest. Over time my hair will dry and fall, my skin will shrink and my muscles will stiffen. The thought has paralysed me, which helps me to stay unnoticed.

About four inches from my face are the sockets that held Private Foree's eyes. I knew him as Peter. The living dead below me were Roger and Fran. Since the moment I was caught by the robots' trap, I have been completely still, watching Peter's face being distorted, drained and mechanised by whatever it is that lies inside the great blades that hold her unit captive. About half an hour after we were caught, I watched his eyes drop out. I panicked at that moment and I haven't been able to keep track of time since. His hair is mostly gone now, and his skin parts, blisters and greys in little increments. Peter's face is like a soft piece of fruit, left forgotten in the sun. I have had to watch every development from four inches away.

I can't blink, partly because I'm scared to move, and partly because I don't want to feel any movement against my eyes. It makes no sense and it's hurting me, but I just don't want to lose them like Peter lost his. They're so sensitive now, so dry despite the pathetic, welling sorrow inside me. I just want to be away from this planet. I just want to not have to look at Peter's empty, blackened sockets anymore.

A too-familiar shriek of metal sounds close to me, and I hold myself rigid, pressing and bending my fingernails against the pike. As if taunting me, Peter's face moves, dropping downward out of my field of vision. His transformation is complete, then. He's been reanimated like the other two. Soon the rest of the team will join them, and the unit will be reunited with a new purpose. After a moment, I hear Peter's footsteps and some guttural moaning from him and the other creatures. And then another shriek. My pike drops too.

I realise that all the time I was looking at his hollow face, he was looking right back. He knows I'm not being transformed. Or, not anymore. I fall and they watch.

Involuntarily, some part of my brain slams my eyelids shut, screwing them up so tight it hurts, just trying to protect the delicate organs. Not seeing my approaching death is worse than staring at it, so I make myself look.

Peter's body stumbles a little, and the mistake triggers my adrenaline. Not making a sound but breathing too hard through my nose, I lift my body off the spike before it reaches the base, and feel myself fly for a moment. The grassy, packed dirt hits my exhausted back hard, and the pain pisses me off. I stand and clench my teeth.

What the hell _are_ these things? I'm just stationed here to protect colonists and none of this _makes sense_.

Peter's remains try to speak as they move to kill me but all I hear is pained, amplified rasping. The creature has dark grey tubing snaked into its mouth and reaching deep into its throat. With arms outstretched it moves from a trot to a run. The other two are behind it.

I desperately need to throw up now. I need to lie down, need to blink again, but these simple comforts are suicide now. There are three dead marines coming to impale me, forcing stunted, dry echoes of bloodlust through their mouths. Willing my legs to stop shaking and propel me, I pick a direction and run. It hurts.

In the silence I hear every haphazard, clumsy footstep behind me, then hear my own, a little slower. _This is too hard_, I yell silently, almost breathing the last word aloud as I runs, my bad arm dangling and paining me with every movement. My pace picks up again with my next hard breath. It's empowering. Now the creatures are distressed, their shrill voices forming moans. I keep it up for seconds before it appears ahead of me; an Alliance hardsuit, coloured white and tan like my own. Its owner isn't in it anymore, but its ripped parts still holster four guns. I grin, throw my legs out in front of me faster, farther-

And trip. My elbows and my left cheek take the brunt of the impact this time, but the agony collects at the big, red wound at my shoulder. With one hand I try to push my armoured torso off the ground, but I only flip myself sideways. I stare at the thick, red sky as I push myself again. My legs begin to scrabble.

I'm almost standing when I feel the hand grab my leg. The sudden sensation of panic is more than I can handle and I fall, once again slamming into the dirt.

Three more hands take me then; one at my neck, another scratching beneath my breast and the other finding purchase inside my wound, gripping the still-bloody flesh. The pain just makes me want to sleep. My eyes are half-closed now, and I focus on the need to keep them open.

For an instant I accept death, and I start to fondly remember the life I had enjoyed before my stint in the military began. As I do, though, a loving, kind face keeps appearing, and I don't want to let it down. I force my lids fully open, revelling in the act of defiance. From here, it's an easy thing to grip the cold, hard fingers of the worst attacker and pull the arm away. Temporarily free of the pain, I reach out and grab the hardsuit leg. The chill hand quickly returns to my wound but I don't lose my energy. Now I'm holding a shiny new Storm I shotgun. It came in the last shipment, just before they found the Beacon. Just in time.

Blindly pointing the weapon behind me, I pull on the trigger with enough force to make my finger throb. The recoil hurts even more, but I take great pleasure in hearing its _boom_. I hurl another shot almost immediately, and this time I'm rewarded with a saftisying sound, like that of a knife slamming through meat and into a chopping board. There is a confused, animal cry behind me and one of the hands stops scrabbling at my body.

I give two more shots fast, and overheat the damn gun. I didn't even think about that as I was clinging to the trigger. The gun was my saviour, and I had failed to consider that it might let me down. I kick behind me instead, still stabbing at the trigger with my complaining finger so that it will shoot as soon as is possible.

Finally it does, and I feel the last of the hands let me go. I pull my body around now, finally able to face the creatures. Two of them lie at awkward angles on the floor, twitching a little. The blue lights invading the body of the one farthest away have started to fade. With the lights out, they're less dangerous. I feel a wash of relief and exhale roughly.

Peter is still moving, though. His perpetually-open mouth looks more rigid now, and his colourless, dark brow is furrowed very slightly. As I stare back at him again, his hand plunges right back into his my wound.

This time I am aware of the pain. The fight is failing in me again and Peter's fingers are pulling harder than they did before. Using my soft musculature as a grip, the creature yanks itself closer to me. Then it starts to rip at my flesh, aiming to subdue me before it drags me back to the pikes. If I could speak, I would give a scream as loud as the steel cry of that leviathan ship that had docked when this torment began. I haven't found my voice yet.

I aim the shotgun with a quivering arm, but suddenly I feel hot. My suit becomes sticky and burns my skin cruelly as a web of blue light and electrical charge is expelled from the creature's body, pulsing directly into mine. My head rocks back and forth and to one side, but I manage not to close my eyes. Without aiming I jab at the shotgun trigger again, but it's no good. Somehow it's overheated again. He's doing it. My hand drops the handle and reaches to Peter's face. I find the skin of his neck and find it softer than the hands that had held me. I start to punch.

Slamming the bottom of my armoured fist into him over and over, I look straight into the illuminated holes where his eyes were, grimacing my indignity and revulsion. The electrical charge stops, and I slam my elbow instead, harder than I thought I could, deeper into his throat. There is a noise that should be of choking, but it sounds more like an engine failing. Peter releases his grip and his eye sockets are empty again.

My body gives and I fall by his side, staring helplessly into his broken, distorted face again. Turning my head a little, I feel myself vomit, and blink rapidly without planning to. The sensation of the skin against my eyes makes me sick again, and I lie still.

Peter didn't deserve any of this. I need to go _home_.

I stand.

Beneath the darkening red clouds, in all directions, I hear moans. The robots have moved on, distracted by something, but I am surrounded.


	2. Survivors

**2****- Survivors**

I don't know where to go, but I feel my extended period of shock dripping away. At the least, I'm going somewhere, and I have my Storm I. When I finally caught my breath, I discovered that the rest of the weapons on the discarded armour were useless. I guess they were ruined by the bizarre, reflexive electric discharge Peter's body had attacked me with.

The small of my back seems too far away, too much out of sight, so I lift the gun by the grip with my right hand, finger near the trigger. I'm ready. I stay ready for a couple of minutes, and then I come across a second cluster of the steel pikes, arranged around a familiar location. These are the outskirts of the dig site. I've marched right back to where this all began. The scene of the battle. Maybe the lair of the creatures. I lower my head in exhaustion. The artefact isn't here anymore, but that doesn't concern me as much as it should.

The pikes are empty and most of them are retracted. The air is quiet. I don't want to chase the 'Beacon', whatever it is. I don't want to find any of the soldiers I can't account for, any of the two-thirty-two, or find out where the robots headed to. My left arm is numb and unresponsive. I have done enough today.

The thought reminds me of something, and I try curling my fingers as I walk, directionless. With some effort and some uncomfortable sensations nagging my arm, I manage to bend the digits, but not all the way to make a fist.

And then my head sinks again. The _scientists_. Doctor Warren and the rest. Their camp was right by here. I have to at least see if they're still there. And the two-thirty-two might be there too, or someone at least. Some kind of help. The thought spurs me on, right up until the guilt inevitably hits. Soldiers and farmers are probably dying and impaled all over the area, and all I can think of is finding someone to look after me. I'm getting paid for this. If I make it back.

I'm angry at myself, and angry at the guilty thoughts for intruding and making this _harder_ for me. Still I stagger through the path and over the crest of a little, green hill. Through an opening between thick, hard bushes.

On the other side I see more of the pikes. This time they are arranged threateningly at the centre of the little settlement, fully extended. Some are bloodied, with spattered, dry stains reaching down from the tips. A few items of clothing and objects lay still beneath them. They are circled by the scientists' portable shacks, built at angles facing away from them. It feels like I've picked the wrong direction to run.

Perhaps worse, the camp is quiet as a tomb. There's no movement and no bodies. I assume it's too late for the research team, and the guilt makes me mentally plead for none of this to be real. I make my gums ache by clamping my jaw shut in front of my tongue, but I stop before I end up chipping a tooth.

I have to check the shacks. Running the short distance to the first, I peer in the window and see nothing but slightly-disturbed furniture. I know I ought to rap on the metal wall, to be completely sure there's no-one there, but when my fist reaches the right height, I just shake my head at the floor and move away. Have to be quiet. I can't respect myself anymore, but that's just not important right now. Jogging between each structure, I examine the insides from the windows. They're empty and I'm painfully relieved.

In the corner of my eye I recognise a square, military-issue first aid box sealed to the wall. Until now it has not even occurred to me to find some medi-gel. Forgetting my fear I fling the door open and bust open the flimsy container. Greedily, I slather the cold fluid onto my throbbing chest and breathe hard through my teeth, leaning hard against the wall as the powerful pain-reliving agent enters my body.

I don't know how much time passes as I press against that wall and convulse slightly with the relief. It feels great and I'm barely aware of what's going on. Once the sensation becomes too good I snap out of it and remember where I am. Reflexively I check the window, just to make sure I'm still alone. Yeah. Okay.

I take off my gloves, then, and my helmet. The dead air explores the contours of my freed skin and cools me. My left hand is cut, just grazed a little when the pike initially caught me and I tried to scrabble off. There's no blood now and I see something in the wound that makes me sick to my stomach all over again. A hint of deep blue, amongst the tissue.

With a sharp nasal inhalation I slam my back against the wall, lost in sensations again, terrified by what I see. It's no more than a speck, obscured by my own flesh, but it is blue. They've messed with my hand. It's not human now. I stare and bare teeth at it, occasionally smashing the wall again in anger.

There will be surgical tools somewhere in these tents. I could remove the hand. In case the infection spreads, or whatever. I guess it doesn't; I pulled myself free of the pike quickly, and since then I haven't changed like the others did. I look at my hand again and decide to keep it. Right now, taking a second serious injury doesn't seem like a groovy idea.

Forcing myself not to look at the hand, I place the fingers on my other side onto my cheek. After a moment I untie the restrictive bun on my hair and let it fall down, still bent and dry, but free. It makes me sigh and I try to blink. I still can't. Not yet. My eyes hurt _so damn much_.

So I look around for a few moments, wondering what the hell to do. I know I need to go deeper; to find those scientists, or what became of them, but I also know I'm not going to. They're dead, if they're lucky. I can't help them in any case. I tell myself again and again. The battle's over now. I just need to escape. Escape and retire. Now there's no-one left but me and the bodies.

On a dresser-top I see a shiny datacorder. I might use that, I think, so I loosen my armour and slip it into my thin slacks beneath. What I really need is some way to call off world. When I am ready I'll search the rest of the shacks. There is also a half-eaten block of white chocolate here. The kind with the miniature bit-bam candies baked inside. Chalky crap. I see it and feel repulsed, but I should eat. I lift it to my hard-crusted lips and chew off a tiny piece. It tastes good right now. I nibble some more and feel full.

Without a direction, I sit on the edge of the dresser. My hard, resilient armour plating almost slips off, but I balance. While I'm here, I can close my eyes. After a breath I begin to do so, but immediately I pull my lids wide open again. Finally I relax a touch and close them fully.

As soon as I see the blanket of darkening burgundy I fantasise about what may be happening around me, how near the reanimated troops and scientists may be. How many there may be. I tell myself to ignore this and just let my eyes bathe for a moment, and it works. My mind clears. But for a moment. The next instant I have a new, worse fear. What if I can't open them again? I feel the air against my face, the lack of ground at my feet and feel high up. Trapped again. Caught. I feel another pike climbing through my body, its insides mixing with mine, my lifeless hair giving up and falling. My blue hand curling in pathetic, useless protest. I try to open my eyes now but I can't, as if nothing is there but the void I'm looking at. My face is wet.

Hurling myself off the edge of the desk I press fingers to my forehead and yank open my eyelids again. I will not close them again. The gun and the chocolate are on the floor with me. I pick up both with the one hand and guzzle the latter. Its soothing, addictive chemicals are a comfort to me now and they give me the energy to stand. No more blinking, I tell myself. I got by without it before. Keep looking.

Almost as a courtesy I glance out the window, but what I see holds me still. The scientists are returning to their settlement, coming from roughly the direction of the dig site. They look like the soldiers had looked, but not quite. These creatures have not been transformed as carefully; most still have remnants of clothing, slightly less grey in their skin. This was done hastily, maybe not by the geth. And these are not so uniform in appearance. Of the eight or nine I can see, three are too short to be marines and one is too fat. Three more are female. They descend slowly and I just watch. Like me they have no purpose, but they keep walking toward my shack.

I hear a thin, weak moan behind the thin metal wall of the shack. One is coming from that direction too. I slip down to the ground, beneath the window and aim my gun. Now my back is to the crowd, but my head is below the window sill. I try to imagine where they were, what they were doing, why they are returning. Maybe I alerted them by hitting the back of the wall. But maybe not. They aren't in any hurry.

There is the sound of a little stumble beyond the wall. A rock rolls against the bottom of it, and then I can hear slow footsteps.

So there's one coming around that way and a crowd a little further back in the other direction. I make my plan to just run. Any direction. Off to the farmers' fields seems reasonable. Maybe blast the clumsy, weak-sounding creature outside first.

Then they all just stop making noises. I wait for a few seconds, then a few seconds more, to hear what they are doing. There's nothing, and it's been too long. Now I don't know their positions. I start to get up, though my legs betray me, refusing to support the risky move. Slowly and silently I turn my body around and bend my back and neck upwards. I stare, focused at what little of the window I can see. So far just the night sky. Inch by inch I get more, and I see the tops of grey heads, too close to my hideout. I keep going, wondering where to stop. I don't have a plan for if they see me. I'm trembling now and my lower lip is curling around my upper, as if I'm about to burst into a tantrum.

There is a sound as something impacts door. A dull thud. It's not directed with enough strength or purpose to be violent. I try to ignore it but I don't understand what caused it. I _need_ to know. I can't _think_, can hardly _breathe_. I want to look at the door but I can't turn my back on the horrors just a foot behind the glass.

Another thud. Then another, right after. I realise slowly that someone is knocking. I try to remember whether I locked it, but my question is answered for me. The door drags open then and I just turn around, all but standing up. In the doorway is one of the creatures, watching me react to it. Its mouth is contorted painfully to accept the two thick pipes. Its naked, dead body is slender and short and stands without authority. The head is just a touch too large for its body.

I want to scream now, more than anything else. I don't particularly want to run or fight. The idea of suicide occurs to me but I dismiss it in favour of giving up completely. I just want to scream. My throat is too dry and convulsing too much with the beginnings of dry sobs to accommodate me. So I submit my screams and pleadings and apologies to the creature in complete silence.

I don't know where the monsters were when I arrived, but I guess they were converting others. Maybe they were converting one of the scientists' sons or young assistants whilst I sat at his bed, cowering and eating his candy. It continues to watch me, but now it's moving forward. Faster with each step.

Out of the window I am spotted by the rest, and there are shrieks and electrical discharges. A surge of energy at the base of my spine moves me and I stand, gripping the Storm I again. Running with my eyes on the ground, I fire three rounds directly ahead and exit.

The breeze hits the top of my head as I barge forward on awkwardly placed legs. I don't look up to see where I'm going. I don't look to see how close behind me they are. I don't even look back to see if I hit him. When I have escaped I will pray that I did and that the damage was enough. And maybe I'll even be bold enough to ask for forgiveness for letting it happen.

My running is automatic but faster than I have ever known. As I reach the beginning of a hill leading away from the area I am thinking of nothing. I start to hear the creatures' grunting and their electrical wails, and I feel my suit getting hotter. They must be very close behind.


	3. Harvest

**3- Harvest**

The silence seems out of place. There are six or seven dead scientists chasing me up the hill. Sometimes a rock is loosened or they make a sound or I breathe, and it's easier.

Their flashes of electrical discharge snap at my heels, heating my legs and my body even more as I leap uphill with motorised joints. When they get me, the cushioned interior of the hardsuit singes and presses the embers against my skin. I'm taking minor burns, but too many of them.

They flash me again, and it's a big one this time. I heard it, powering up I guess, before they threw it. Now my body is burning and the back of my right knee takes it the worst. It's like an iron being held to my skin. I lose my step and they move closer. Grunting to myself very quietly, I scramble my good arm and throw my torso about until I have loosened the top half of my armour. Alliance gear is fiddly and bulky, not like those asari skindiving suits, so this is tricky. I've never done it on the move.

I keep scaling the endless slope and they keep getting closer, swiping at my hot, protesting leg. Finally the final clasp is undone and I liberate my last shoulder. The armour slides heavily off my bad arm, and I feel air rushing through the hole in my chest. Shreds of my sweat-saturated grey vest flap against the tissue, and I'm hyper-aware of each touch. I can't figure if it's a nice feeling or if it hurts, but it takes my mind of my knee, so it's good. The ceramic clatters to the ground and I'm lighter, and I'm free. Less hard material clutching to my skin.

I gain speed, but without the heavy suit to weigh it down, my arm flaps. Feeling sharp bolts of pain shoot up it, I drag it across my midriff. Now I'm doing it. I'm _doing_ it now. I'm going to get away from them. When I hit the top of this hill I'll be even faster, and then I'll just sprint. When they reach the bottom I'll be gone, maybe hidden somewhere.

As I plan this, I realise where I'm running. There's a numbered white spire at each corner of my field of vision; this is a mobile crop field. Big one at that. I'm entering the colony farmland. This is good. It seems doubtful the robots would have any interest here. I can reach safety if I just keep running and don't let one of these things touch me.

The creatures keep flashing their electricity, but I'm out of range now. They're not out of mine, though. I think maybe I should stand my ground and take them down. I'm higher, so I have a good advantage there. I glance down and the sight of their faces reminds of the last one I looked at. The boy. I just want to be away from here. I pound my feet into the tough ground beneath me with force that shoots back into the leg and hurts my burned knee.

I just want to be safe.

With a few big strides I make it to the top, and propel myself over the edge, still running as I land. There are no buildings save the four little spires. Just fenced-off areas and a wide, massive expanse of wheat. I crash through the crops, making more space between me and my pursuers.

The shining grey structures dotted all around the perimeter in a vast circle almost don't register in my mind. I'm so used to seeing them now. It's only when I notice the bodies held at their peaks, silhouetted against the still-red sky, that I realise what I'm running into.

The field holds thirty of the geth pikes, and each one holds a still human body like a trophy in the air. They perimeter the field, beginning on either side of me.

My legs buckle and feel cold, and even my burn stops bothering me for a moment. It's like a joke that I don't understand, the pikes staring, waiting for my reaction. I drop to my knees and rest on the hard shell of the armour I still have. It isn't comfortable but I can't stand now. Without understanding why, I make a fist and start to knaw at the white knuckles. I bite hard, trying to draw blood, breathing hard behind my trembling fingers.

I don't _understand_. I don't even know who these victims are. Farmers? The two-thirty-two? Why did they do this? What are these things and why have the geth created them?

Something hot sears my naked arm, like a drop of candle wax. It's only after gaping at it beneath furrowed eyebrows that I understand it's a tear. I'm so numb now, I didn't even realise I was crying. I want to blink away the tears but I still can't close my eyes. I don't know what torment the geth and their monsters might have waiting for me when I open them again.

I start sniffing hard, and as I do, thirty geth pikes descend, echoing the sound of steel on steel into the field and rolling it onto the land below. I'm shaking my head as I sniff, almost laughing but not smiling. The six creatures behind me are audible again. Close now. In all directions, more of them start to surface above the crops. One or two see me and start to run at me. I keep sniffing and not laughing.

This was never supposed to happen. I'm not _meant_ for this. Nobody ever trained me for this. I'm supposed to be going _home_ after this duty.

I just wait for them to arrive, still shaking my head as if defying them. This just can't be happening.

I watch more creatures rise from the ground and find me in their horizons. Suddenly I do start laughing. I can hear my voice again. Because it's just like the old vid. The _Jason and the Argonauts_ movie that I had to watch on that awful second date. It's just like those skeletons rising from the earth to blindly do their master's bidding. I laugh harder as another one emerges, his grey, expressionless, skull face finding me without eyes, and his lumbering body moving to kill me.

The villain who commanded them threw dragon's teeth into the earth to make them appear. And then they followed him blindly. Fought to the death for him.

I muse over the creatures coming for me. Today the geth used our own dead against us. Reserve troops that can be called up during the battle. They're completely loyal and determined, more deadly and single minded than they were alive. They're damn good soldiers.

_Damn_ good soldiers.

The image of the boy creature flits through my mind again, and I stop laughing. Now I stand, arm the shotgun, and start running. Straight into the path of the nearest creature. I'm a good soldier too. And finally I'm going to prove it.

When I get there I scream and fire two rounds into his face. He falls. Then I pick another and run for him. This one starts to ready his electricity, so I stop myself and drop him from a distance. The pellets land all around his body but the impact knocks him over and they tear through enough of his circuitry to keep him down. The blue lights shining through the wheat give up after a moment.

There are still six behind me, so I run at them next, firing already before leaving a moment to cool the gun. Most of the pellets miss, but the creatures slow down. When I'm close enough I knock down the tallest one with shots to the chest, and move my aim sideways to hit the next one's head. A single blast finishes him, denting the skull.

Again they start preparing the electric flash, so I stride back, firing with all I have. My fire lays two more down quickly, and I decide to move in closer to finish the job. One makes a swipe for me, which I was not expecting. His fingers claw into my cheek a little, so I disable the arm before putting a hole in his chest to match my own. As he flails, I smash the next one with the butt of the gun. Just like Peter. The sensation and the sounds give me an almost physical pleasure and my triumphant yelps get louder every time. He sinks to his knees as I had, and I just keep smashing him, lowering down with him. When I'm done I stand, breathe, and turn.

I took too long with that one. Stupid. Now there are too many on my other side. I turn to run back down the hill, but not fast enough. One has me by the leg, and right away I've been dragged into the crowd. I look at their pallid, broken faces through a canopy of writing hands. One punches me hard, sinking the hit in my temple. Another hand gets my jaw then. I guess they're trying to subdue me before taking me to their pikes.

I still have my finger around the trigger of the Storm I, so I shoot where I can. I hit one, presumably in the leg, and he loosens his grip on my thigh. Using the slight reprieve, I kick another hard in the face, and he stumbles down.

All I can do is just keep kicking and firing at point blank. As I do they retaliate by punching and clawing into my chest and arms, tearing at me. Finally one gets the bright idea to shock me, and he charges his blast. Two more do the same, following his lead, and the concentrated shock makes me jolt and spasm. I bite my tongue hard and taste too much blood. I can't move now, and the hot plate armour on my legs has all but cooked them. The skin feels stuck to the lining now.

I scream, and keep firing. I can't kick now. Two more of them take good shots in the bellies, and they drop. I'm able to free my arm fully. And that's the piece of luck I need.

I blast six shots right after the other, overheating the gun, throwing most of them off me. I punch another, and the feeling of his new skin is revolting to me.

When the gun finally kicks back into use, I overheat it again with four more shots. Then I'm free. Another surge of lightning goes out but I dive, dodging most of the blast. Standing on hot, blistered legs, I spit blood and smell smoke. The gun is useless now.

The creatures have congregated now, and they're moving fast. All I can do is run. I turn a sharp right and head for the edge of the hill. When I get there I just fall, not having made any plan to get down safely. But I roll fast. My eyes still clamped open, I watch the sky rotate in two directions and pieces of soil fly into my face. I catch glimpses of my skin and see exactly how much surface damage they did when they had me. After a long, painful minute I hit the bottom and resume my sprint.

I leave the field behind and run into the spaces between trees. I don't have anything to keep me going now except animal instinct. It is enough for now. I don't have the energy to think, so I don't know where I'm running, or how close they are. All I know is where the trees are and how to dodge them. I'm doing well.

After leaping to one side to avoid a thick trunk, I hit an animal. Screaming in surprise, I tear right through its cream-white skin and watch its body explode, inches beneath my eyes. I crash into the soil, unable to process what I have just seen.

Finally I see another in the distance and I understand. Gas bags.

The shock sobers me and I look around. There is no sign of the beings that hunt me. For now, I'm safe. When I have picked myself up I allow myself to walk rather than run. The pain sets in all at once, eager to alert me to the myriad damage my body has taken. I cry out, but it becomes a low moan when I realise the cry doesn't help.

I keep walking until I hear something mechanical in the distance. I shudder, jerking my head in reflexive disgust. But it's not more creatures. It's an engine. I jog forward as fast as my legs will now allow me, until I can see past the trees. Far ahead the ground slopes down to reveal some soft land, hidden by the trees.

There is a ship. Alliance. It looks funny, oddly designed, but I don't care for a moment about that.

An Alliance frigate.


	4. Homecoming

**4- Homecoming**

The frigate is new and shiny, like the shotgun and the geth pikes. Now that I don't have the gun, I have a new salvation in the clearing below. It has just docked and I am on my way to it, scrambling down a grassy hillside.

Behind the vessel is a lovely, wide vista. Eden Prime by night. Swaths of deep, natural green and pinkish brown stretch out until they merge with the freshly-painted night sky.

Two Alliance personnel just entered the ship, with two bodies in tow. I couldn't make out much more. They were moving fast, but it was just the two of them. I guess the battle is over. This must be cleanup. They're here to help.

I scramble for minutes, going fast, imagining a soft bed, fresh medi-gel and the company of armed servicemen. Before I'm halfway down the hill, the frigate's engines disturb me again. With skill and sudden haste, it lifts, about turns and vanishes into the perfect view. I didn't even get close enough to wave.

My lower lip hanging open in front of closed teeth, I sit on the hillside.

I don't know where to go. I've stopped trying now. I thought it was over.

But it is nice to sit down, and to have a little peace. This area is pretty, though there is smoke high in the air spoiling my view. I must still not be so far from the dig site. There is long grass here, and more of the perplexing, gentle gas bags. Hidden by the greenery and the steep wall I still feel pretty safe, even now that my rescuers are gone.

There is one of the colony's big towers fairly nearby. It's always been in my sight, since I originally landed here. It ought to be ugly; an enormous metal tower sticking out of this paradise, with big white numbers printed on it of course. The Alliance loves big, white numbers. But it's a part of the planet now, now that it has been truly soiled.

I wonder how many have died, and how many I could have helped if I'd jumped from that pike sooner. If I'd run straight back into the battle instead of panicking as those things closed in on me. I will regret it always.

Now I have very little to do, it seems. Even the rescue ship was brief and leisurely in its business. Nonetheless, I suppose I could head back where I came from, unarmed and injured, and see about finding others. I could do something, instead of waiting here for another ship. At the very least, I could put those poor people out of their misery. I shudder again at the thought. I don't want to decide that just now.

Breathing is hard after everything I have been through, and with the gap in my body. The muscles there have been exposed to the elements for a while, and they are tired. The blue tints are still visible within, and they make me feel ill once more. My hand, too, shows blue in its cuts. I hate it.

My burned legs still feel as if they're being cooked inside the ceramic coverings. My bad arm feels numb, and my torso and face are stained with my blood. I have taken serious injuries, and strange ones. It's not right that I should feel like I've failed. That I should feel I have to go back into that hell. But I do.

I am a soldier, after all. For now.

I stand up and continue making my way down to the clearing. When I get there I keep walking. Back to the dig site. There must be something I can do. I allow myself to feel egotistical pride in what I'm doing. It's a good thing.

An idea hits me and makes my lips twitch into something resembling a smile. My fingers reach into my thin slacks and retrieve the little datacorder I took from the research settlement. After all the silence, I feel like talking. And it would be fun to make a voice-record of my own out here. So I figure out how it works, set it recording, and just start talking.

As I walk amongst burned bodies, empty pikes and broken robots, I chat to the corder. I tell it how the battle began and what we saw. About the mothership and the awful noise it made. I talk about the initial attack right after, and I talk at length about the creatures they made from our dead. I tell the corder how they are made, how they fight. Why they're so efficient. I start talking about the old vid. About the dragon's teeth and the skeletons. I start to giggle, hearing myself. I hope no-one hears this.

But it feels nice to be personal with it, so I open up a little. I tell my little confidante how badly I want to be on Earth right now, and how scared I am to be walking back into the field. I tell it about the boy I failed to help. I tell it I'm sorry I couldn't save my squad, and I name those who I saw die. I tell it I hope Williams is all right. I tell it how much I miss my husband's cooking. It's a lot. I miss him.

Finally I give my name. Private Nirali Bhatia. Of the two-twelve. And then I switch it off.

The battle has left a foul smell in this place, and it's more noticeable to me now than ever. But I ignore it. I'm here to do a job.

I know that soon I will find a new weapon, and I'll do some good. I'll find some communications equipment and radio for help. I'll meet up with the colonists near here. And I'll protect them from those monsters. They won't capture me again. I won't let them.

The fear leaves me at last. I can fight these things now. I'll do my job, and do it well.

For a moment I slow my patrolling and blink. It feels good. I'll be home soon.

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**Author's Notes**

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Thank you for reading my special Halloween Mass Effect fanfic! I hope it chilled your bones and made you cower behind your monitor with chattering teeth.

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Thanks to Tillian, Knightfall1138 and my friend Adam (who does not have a screen-name) for their help coming up with this, and for listening to me rant as I worked on the idea.

Extra thanks and Halloween goodies to anyone who reviewed - espescially R.I.C.A.R.D., who always seems to review my stuff, and is always very nice and constructive about it. It is appreciated.

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You have been reading "Smells Like Smoke and Death" - the Ultimate Experience in Grueling Mass Effect Horror.

Enjoy the season and don't eat too many sweets.


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